


The Letters

by siriusissues



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015), Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, BTW, F/F, M/M, So much angst, but during ww2, it's like on earth, it's not in the star wars universe anyway, lmao idk bye, what the fuck is this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-05
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-06 11:33:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6752332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/siriusissues/pseuds/siriusissues
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Poe finishes reading the short letter, he reads it again. Then, he reads it another time. He reads it over and over and over until the twiligt turns into a cool night and then the night turns into a sunny dawn and he's still reading it, everytime wishing for more. He wishes for one more word. He wishes for joy.</p><p>Joy never comes. Not that day, either.</p><p>Or; it's spring again and all Poe gets from Hux is a letter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Letters

**Author's Note:**

> this fic started from when i sent kars (hispilct on tumblr) a small drabble thingy when they told me not to ruin this ship with angst. now we've ruined it together,,
> 
> also i don't know shit about scotland or the uk or anything so i had to ask my friend chelsea for a lot of information. i need to thank her sometime for making it possible for me to write this shit fic stuff that literally no one asked for. i'm not sure how many hours it took to do all the research for this, but it took me over 12 hours to actually write it lmao and now it's four in the morning and the sun is about to rise ugh so wonderful
> 
> we don't know hux's firstname yet so i just gave him one that i think suits him (((-':
> 
> this is btw not beta read or proof read or anything and english is still not my first language, sooooo
> 
> anyway !! enjoy !!!!

It's a Friday morning this time, the date is May 5th, the year is 1944.

 

It's breezy, the gentle wind sweeping a young man's hair away from his forehead, messing it up if it weren't already so naturally messy. It suits him. Said young man has his hands buried deep in his coat pockets, seeking warmth in the endless cold. Moving to Scotland had been a spontaneous decision when he was younger. When _they_ were younger. That was two years ago now. He had only been nineteen. He's still young, has barely aged a day on the outside. On the inside though, it feels like he's lived for more than three eternities and has another eight to live.

 

An older lady waves at him from across the road made out of dirt and not asphalt. He waves back. Green valleys are stretching before him into the sky, never ending. The man smiles then. Moving to the countryside had been worth it all along, even though it does get kind of lonely some days. He hopes today is not one of these days.

 

A light drizzle bounces against the hard ground as he watches the old lady turn around and slowly make her way inside her small cottage made out of red stone bricks. He guesses her beloved wife is waiting for her to join her at the breakfast table, freshly brewed cinnamon tea and toast with slices of tomato already ready and set up on the round kitchen table. He adores them both and has more than once been invited to join them for breakfast. He has yet to accept the offer, even though he's grateful for the opportunity. He'll be okay on his own for another morning.

 

He stands there for a moment, minute after minute passing until they've turned into half an hour and he's finally built up enough courage to take one of his hands out of his coat pocket to open the mailbox and fish out the letters. Bills, bills, bills, all addressed to William Hux. He skips through them all on seven seconds. He then stops, unable to breathe as his breath catches in his throat. The world closes in on him, green valleys and grey skies coming closer as he reads on the envelope over and over and over again. Then everything turns back to the way it was, except for his heart threatening to tear his chest into two parts and not sewing it up again without leaving a nasty, deep scar.

 

**Poe Dameron**

**47 Blue Villagestreet**

**Edinburgh**

**Midlothian**

**Scotland, UK**

**EH14 9PT**

 

The letter is addressed to him. He tries not to let hope burn him alive again.

 

The young man with the dark brown curls begins to make his way inside again. An orange kitten with fur softer than the petals of a rose is waiting for him on the porch, refusing to go outside into the light rain. Poe can't exactly blame her, after all.

 

He throws the bills onto a small table standing just by the double doors leading into the narrow hallway. The kitten meows at him. The young man then sighs at the last letter he's holding, still addressed to him. It's not a mistake. It's his letter. His fingers are itching to open it, and so is his heart. He can't though, cause the sinking feeling at the pit of his stomach is telling him not to. The kitten blinks, large dark orbs staring at him in wonder. He sighs again.

 

"Life was easier when he was around, Millicent," he murmurs into the silence of the main hall. He thinks the kitten understands him, after all.

 

The room falls quiet again. Millicent licks her paws. His hands are trembling with adrenaline and with fear. A single rain drop falls from his curly hair and glides along his nose before falling again and landing in the center of the envelope. It smears the dark blue ink and the messily written 'Edinburgh'. It doesn't matter. It's just a letter written weeks ago. Its' sender could be dead by now anyway. He shudders at the thought.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The twilight embraces the small town of Scotland, faint stars are painting the night sky from far away. For a brief moment the young man wants to get his brushes and blank canvas out, but what should you do with a painting on the wall if no one else is around to admire it? He quickly ignores the idea, throws it away with his long gone joy. He stares out of the wide kitchen window as Millicent nudges his leg. Before him on the table sits a cup of strawberry and ginger tea. Next to it lies the letter he got this morning.

 

With one last sigh and a trembling breath passing his parted lips, he reaches out and tears the envelope open in one swift motion. He unfolds the letter and begins to read.

 

_"My dearest love,_

 

_I must start with apologising for never having time to write to you._

_The war is starting to come to a turning point and soon enough I'll be back with you._

_Do not fear to lose me, for I'll be with you always until the end of time._

_With this letter I send you a flower I found the other day. I think it's a Chicory. At least a mate of mine called Ben told me so. He smiled when I mentioned you. I couldn't tell if it was out of joy or sadness. I guess it was a mixture between both._

_The flower's blue petals reminded me of the skies back in Scotland, even though they were more grey than they were ever blue. They also reminded me of you, for some reason I cannot explain._

_With the Chicory I also send you a promise. You decide for what. A promise for what you need the most, I hope._

_I'm afraid I must end this letter now. It's late and after another restless night comes the chaos, the never ending war._

_Take care of yourself. I think of you everyday. I love you._

 

_Forever and always,_

 

_Will."_

 

When Poe finishes reading the short letter, he reads it again. Then, he reads it another time. He reads it over and over and over until the twiligt turns into a cool night and then the night turns into a sunny dawn and he's still reading it, everytime wishing for more. He wishes for one more word. He wishes for joy.

 

Joy never comes. Not that day, either.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The young man with the sad mocca eyes is laying in bed. The soft mattress is digging into his back like the blade of a sharp knife. The window is open, gentle spring breezes strokes his skin like a lover would; tender and warm in the lonely May night. He's holding the letter again. After reading it he put it back into its envelope. That was yesterday. It's soon been two mornings since he got it. It almost feels like only two seconds. _Almost_.

 

BB chirps from their cage in the corner of the large bedroom. The little cockatoo watches Poe with wide eyes like they're asking him for something he cannot tell. The young man laughs at himself, bitter and quiet but loud enough for BB to chirp again. Maybe he's just starting to go crazy. Maybe the loneliness finally is getting to him. It hits him then that it did long ago. It took him probably just a day to give into the lonely feeling trapping him in this way too big house in this way too small village.

 

He slides off of the bed, his feet hitting the hardwood floor with a gentle thump. Poe sits cross legged on the cold floor as he reaches underneath the bed. _Their_ bed. He lifts a small, white paper box onto his lap then takes off the lid carefully, placing it on the floor beside him. Inside the box he finds more letters. Well, not exactly finds, since he's the one who put them there. He looks at them for a moment, wanting to take them out and read them all again instead of sleeping. He doesn't. Instead he just places the new letter atop of the older ones and puts the lid back on the box before pushing it back under the bed.

 

That night he writes, like he usually does. He writes a long letter about everything he wishes he could tell Will. He writes about the old ladies across the street. He writes about how it was sunny for once that morning. He tells him about the new tea brand he tried out and how green apple is his favorite flavour yet. He tells him about how he's thinking about opening his own flowershop, just so he can smell the flowers day in and day out. He writes about how he wanted to paint the stars the other night, but didn't cause he's afraid William will never get to see the painting with his own two eyes.

 

When he messes up he starts over. He wants this letter to be perfect. He's got his whole life to write it, after all. When he's done he folds the letter in half and puts it into an envelope, writing the address in black ink.

 

**William Hux**

**Somewhere in Europe**

 

He then puts a stamp on the envelope, this one has a yellow butterfly on it. It's done. Another letter is written. Another letter will never get sent to its location.

 

He pulls out another box from underneath the bed. This one is black. He takes off the lid and inside of it is another ninety-nine letters. He puts the letter he just wrote on top of the others, then closes the box again. It's dawn now. He goes to sleep anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poe watches as one hundred letters are getting eaten by fire. He's holding the black box that is now empty. When they've all turned into dark grey ashes he lets them get taken away by the wind. He hopes it takes them to Will, then maybe he'll get his letters anyway. He knows it's just a foolish wish and useless hope, but sometimes hope is the only thing a man has, no matter if it doesn't burn as bright anymore. He goes inside to put the black box back where it's supposed to be, underneath the average sized bed that still feels way too big at night. When he's written another hundred letters he'll put them in the box one by one, until the last letter is finished as well. He'll watch them burn too, like he always does when he hits the number one hundred. It's just some letters, anyway. But they're all written with love from Scotland and in a messy handwriting. Poe's unique handwriting. And they're all telling a different story, even though they're all part of his life. No one will ever read them but Poe himself, for he cannot send them to his beloved fiancé anyway.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

One day he gets another letter from William. He thinks it's been around three weeks since he got the last one. It's raining when he gets it, not unusual for Scotland. He drops to his knees on the floor of the main hall. Millicent meows at him like she usually does. He lost his balance, unable to think straight as he reads the address over and over again. It can't be wrong this time either. BB chirps from somewhere in the livingroom.

 

He tears the envelope open, still sitting on the floor. Adrenaline rips through his veins like ice cold fire and the young man feels like he's freezing to death in the middle of gunfire and blood made out of ashes. It feels like his whole body is on fire unable to put out. The letter doesn't say much, just a few words already chanting in Poe's mind. He reads it again though, like he always does, just in case he's missed something. Some hidden words inbetween the sentences.

He holds onto hope like it's his last lifeline. He refuses to realize that it is.

 

_"I'll be home soon, my love. Just wait, wait for me to come back. I'll be home soon. I'll be back in no time and we'll finally get married and then adopt a baby girl like you've always wanted. Like I've always wanted, too. I'll be back. I love you."_

 

This letter is also written in dark blue ink. All Will's letters are. The deep shade is standing out against the thin, white paper. Poe ignores the blood stains on it. Everything is so messily written, the words are slowly blurring together. He throws up.

 

That night he lies awake until dawn again. It has started to become a habit. When the bright sunrays slowly slips through the curtains, he can't help but wonder when William will find time to write to him again. Millicent curls up on his chest. He spends the rest of the day in bed with her and BB.

 

At some point someone knocks on the door. He calls for them to come inside, which they do. It's the old lady and her wife that lives across the street. They feed his kitten and makes him some lavender tea with honey. As the taller one places the cup on his white nightstand she lingers for a moment, her eyes fixed on a dried flower laying on top of a copy of Jane Austens' Pride and Prejudice. She can barely make out the faint blue colour of the thin petals.

 

"Did you use the book to dry it?" She asks the young man still curled up in bed. He nods as an answer, which earns him a gentle smile. "I used to do that, too, when I was your age," she then says. Poe can't help but smile back at her. It's the first time in months he properly smiles a real smile. He doesn't mention that, though.

 

Her wife walks into the room then, Poe thinks her name is Sabé. Her long hair is tied into a perfect bun at the back of her head. She's beautiful and intelligent, there's no doubt about that. No wonder Padmé married her.

 

"He'll be back in no time, you'll see," Sabé tells him, and he wants to believe her, he really does. He nods again.

 

Padmé takes a seat on his bed then and lays her hand on his shoulder. Poe finds himself truly wondering about her for the very first time since he first met her two years ago. Sabé watches them as she puts the old watering can away on the windowsill. He makes a mental note to thank her for taking care of his flowers. _His and Will's flowers,_ he corrects himself.

 

"Child," Padmé says to him with a sigh so quiet he almost misses it. She picks up Millicent and pets her for a minute or two. He loses track of time all over again. "My grandson is serving in the war too. I know what it feels like."

 

Sabé walks over to them then, a gentle smile on her face but her eyes are screaming hopeless sorrow. She sets a flowerpot on the nightstand and tells him it'll make the air around him cleaner. He ignores the thought that her words has a deeper meaning than that. Her old but still nimble fingers traces the cracked paint of the white nightstand and Poe wants to reach out and stop her cause he knows she will eventually do something about the ruined paint like the old fixer she is. He doesn't.

 

"What's  your grandson's name?" He asks Padmé instead and for a split moment he's surprised that he actually spoke for once. The question earns him another smile, although it's short and is soon replaced by sadness.

 

"His name is Ben. Or, at least it used to be. We're not sure anymore," Sabé answers for her wife after she's been quiet for too long.

 

Poe is not listening anymore, for he cannot stop thinking of this _Ben_. A man in one of Will's letters was called Ben, he remembers. But no, it can't be.

 

Padmé and Sabé leaves right before the evening, but not before insisting on cooking Poe a meal for the night. He hasn't been eating properly for a while now. Maybe that's because he just simply forgets to. He doesn't say that to the two old ladies, though. He's grateful for their time, as always.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Months passes. It's now August. The day has been very windy so far, but the young man barely notices. Poe's been busy taking care of his own little flowershop down the street. Somedays Padmé and Sabé comes in to help him, although the three of them usually end up talking about different tea brands and what flowers they should get next. Everytime the two old ladies decide to go back home for the day, Sabé buys Padmé a pink lotus, and Padmé gets her wife a bouquet of lavender flowers. Their love is so pure one can almost touch it. _Almost_. As they walk out of the shop Poe sighs to himself and wishes that he and William could be like that one day, too. His engagement ring promises him that someday, maybe someday they will. But only maybe, just maybe.

 

When he gets home the sun has already set for the day and Millicent is waiting for him by the door. He throws the bills onto their usual spot on the small table by the double doors leading into the narrow hallway, then kicks off his shoes. She purrs at him, wanting to get pet. _Later_ , he thinks. At the bottom of the pile of today's mail, there's a letter. He doesn't recognize the sender but somehow he knows exactly what it'll say and who it's from. He fears that if he opens the envelope and reads it, then it'll just confirm his thoughts. But if he leaves it be for some time, then it can't be true, right? He snorts at himself in shame, only a fool would believe he could escape reality forever. There is no such thing as forever, anyway.

 

He's sitting by the kitchen table with Millicent curled up on his lap. She's sleeping. BB is flying around the livingroom, they've been oddly silent lately. Poe doesn't think of it too much. At least he tries not to. He thinks back to when he was younger. When _they_ were younger and free and together. He huffs out a puff of air, almost laughing at himself. It hasn't even been three years since Will got called into the army, but yet it feels like it's been only a day and also an eternity at the same time. And to think Poe thought they were free. He came to realize one day that freedom cannot be bought and locked up in some dusty box to keep hidden away until the end of time. It's not an object, not an item. It's something you _are_. Poe realized too, at some point, that when William left he took both of their liberties with him that cannot be brought back. Parts of both of them will always be missing, left somewhere in the heart of Europe.

 

The young man thinks back to when they first met back in an old bookstore somewhere in Manchester. He's always wanted to go back there just to see if everything's changed or if it's still the same. Somehow he thinks it's a mixture between both. Time changes things, makes them older. But everything's probably just like it was when the two young men walked out of the store together that day. Poe was eighteen then, William was two years older. That was four years ago now.

 

Millicent shifts on his lap as he's being brought back to reality all over again. His eyes fall on the letter that he received earlier that day. He still has to open it. He reaches out, long and petite fingers curling around a lukewarm cup of blackcurrant tea. As he takes a sip he can't help but notice how it tastes way too sweet to smell like heartbreak. But it does anyway. He then sets the cup aside to pick up the unopened letter. The young man stares at it for a moment because _this is it_. There is no return now. He has to open it. So he does. He tears the white envelope open and pulls out the thin paper inside of it. Poe then unfolds it and begins to read. He wishes he hadn't. Still, he reads it over and over again until he can't read it at all. The words are jumping around, creating a huge mess on the paper but still they're as clear as a sunny day lighting up the small town that he calls home even though he knew from the beginning that it'll never truly be _home_. Home is not a place… It's a feeling, he guesses. A feeling he hasn't felt for a long time now.

 

He folds the letter again and puts it back on the table. It can't be true, no. He won't believe it even though he just got it confirmed in blank ink and a fancy handwriting. For a brief moment he wonders how many of those letters they send out every year. He figures he don't want to know the answer. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't cry. He just sits there in the kitchen a warm night in August as his cat sleeps in his lap.

 

There's a letter before him telling him his fiancé is dead. He goes to sleep alone that night.  Truly alone. Not even hope embraces him throughout the night, nor does it fill his dreams like it used to.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They have a funeral for him, for William Hux, for his fiancé. They have a funeral for a man who died across the ocean, his body forever floating into nothingness. It couldn't be found. The coffin is empty. He died in a sea too big for Poe to even begin to imagine. No matter what a skilled pilot Will were, and no matter how many lives he saved during the war, he still couldn't save himself.

 

A stranger shows up to the funeral. He's tall and pale and dressed in black like everyone else, even if it's too hot. He has dark hair and even darker eyes, piercing everything and everyone they happen to fall on. After the funeral he gives Poe a flower. _"It's a chicory,"_ he tells the shorter man. Poe smiles sadly at him and he knows, he knows who this man is. Padmé and Sabé are watching from afar, smiling just gently at their grandson who's finally back home again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's still August and the evening is warm. The night sky is full of tiny little stars and Poe decides he's going to paint them all later, when he gets back home. He's walking slowly along a dirt road, shadows from majestic trees are falling over him. The young man, only twenty-two years old, is carrying two boxes, one black and one white. He's also carrying a book written by Jane Austen and a single letter. He stops when he reaches one of his destinations, but it's not his final one. He places the book and the boxes on the ground, then stands before a headstone only holding the letter still. The letter is not written for the person whose name is carved into the cold, hard stone, though. The letter is written for Poe by the person he's standing before in the soft darkness. It's the last letter that the person ever sent him. He kneels down and places the letter by the headstone, then picks up the book. He opens it and carefully takes out the dried flower with delicate fingers, which he places on top of the letter. Still holding the book, he then picks up the two boxes and turns around to leave with a final goodbye.

 

His next destination is a bridge stretching across a wide lake. He reaches it quite quickly. He stands there, in the inviting moonlight that shines upon him like a morning serende between two lovers. He smiles. _This is it_. He reaches into the left inner pocket of his coat and fishes out another letter. This one is written by himself. He opens the black box and puts the letter inside, atop of all the other ones. One hundred. Closing the box again, he takes a deep breath and raises it over the railing. In one swift motion he lets go of it and now it's falling, falling until it hits the calm surface of the lake and then slowly floats away into the cool night of the last day of August. The young man picks up the other box, the white one, and counts the letters. Ninety-nine. He puts the lid back on before giving it the same destiny as the first box. He lets go and soon it's gone, too. The two boxes are now nothing more than parts of his past, of what used to be.

 

At last he slips the engagement ring off of his finger. It feels cold without it, a strange feeling he doesn't recall ever being familiar with. Its deep blue diamond sparkles at him, mirrors his expression as he stares at it. He closes his fist and takes a step forward to the railing. Then, before he can hesitate, he opens his hand and out of it falls the ring that soon has sunk to the bottom of the large lake, unable to find again for a very long time.

 

Next to him on the ground lies his book. Before kneeling down to pick it up once again, he reaches into his other inner pocket and pulls out another chicory flower. This one is newer, but just as beautiful. This is the one Ben gave him after William's funeral. He opens the book _\- Pride and Prejudice -_ and puts the delicate flower between two sides. Closing the book, he, then, in a determinated motion, turns around for one last time to begin his walk home. The night whispers goodbye to him. He whispers it back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_Maybe now William could read the letters that his fiancé finally sent him, from the valleys of the green and the grey._

 

_The end._

**Author's Note:**

> i guess i should've tagged major character death lmao my bad....... surprise tho !!


End file.
